GRANGER at Halloween for 10/26/16: THE TEAR IN THE WRAPPER

Truth in advertising“, it read.

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Granger was fed up with the glut of political flyers in his mailbox and inboxes.  Tossing on his desk the garishly colored hit piece in yoga pants by a former state senator, he swung around and gazed unfocused out the window at a grayish, cotton-streaked sky with bruise-blue accents.  Chuffing through his nose, he thought, “Even the sky’s puzzled by it all.”

Bemused, he reached for his “Coffee Made Me Do It” mug.  Just before he got it to his mouth, he noticed the “fun-size” Butterfinger laying on his desk; it had been hidden by the big black mug.  Glancing over at the glass bowl full of assorted Halloween-sized candy, he saw many other bars identical to the one huddled behind his coffee.  You won’t get away from me-e-e . . .

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Amused at the desire-borne moisture in his mouth, he glommed onto the familiar yellow-orange-gold wrapper.  Granger actually licked his lips as he tore the wrapper lengthwise.

Opening the wrapper, he grimaced in disgust.  Really?  Instead of the neat, compact one-by-two-inch chocolate-covered nougat he expected to find, a sharded mess of odd-shaped pieces had fallen onto his black crew-neck tee and khaki pants.

Irritated, he started to grouse about something more to clean up when he suddenly got quiet.

I know people like that, he reasoned.  Brightly packaged, looking like others in The Bowl, like they’ve got it all together–until the wrapper comes off.  Unwrapped, they’re a ragged, jagged collection of misshapen pieces just waiting to fall all over the place.

Yeah, I know people like that.  I’ve been like that.

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As these thoughts jostled each other in his mind, he glanced again at the phrase off the discarded voting flyer:  “Truth In Advertising”.

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Granger’s eyes blurred and his voice thickened as he spoke aloud, a habit of those who spend most of their time alone.  “Oh, yeah.  Many’s the time that, had my wrapper torn, all my hidden insecurities, my personal misgivings, self-doubt, all those questions about myself would be laying all over in a huge, untidy mess just like–here he made a rueful face as he surveyed the slightly-sticky, sweet mess he’d dumped on his clothes– “my ill-fated little candy bar buddy, may it rest in pieces.”

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Later, wearing a comfortable black-and-red shirt with the sleeves rolled half up and a soft pair of old jeans, he stood with mug in left hand and coffee carafe in right, thinking about the recent experience.  Shaking his head as if to wake up, Granger poured a fresh, fragrant cup of Community Golden Caramel, returned to his desk chair and sat pondering.

Is it wrong to present a public appearance that’s attractive, appropriate to one’s task?  Does that not reflect good self-image and -respect?

Is it deceptive to present an outward persona that’s positive and uplifting, even when one’s interior landscape more resembles a barren wasteland?  As a Christ-follower, isn’t being winsome and attractive kind of necessary?

Sipping thoughtfully at the semi-sweet, smooth coffee, he answered his own question.

Deception is willful.  Wearing a mask is intended to hide, to frustrate and conceal.  If those are the reasons for the wrapper, then the advertising is dishonest and disingenuous.

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If one’s desire is to be a consistent positive, encouraging and Christlike witness to one’s own world, then God can be trusted to know how to tenderly deal with the internal brokenness.  To fit the nonfitting.  To create beauty and symmetry just as perfectly as He did at The Original Event.

Rising to refill his mug, Granger thoughtfully nabbed another of the sweet, chocolaty morsels from the Halloween bowl.  Grinning as he softly checked that this one was whole, he admitted to himself, I don’t have this here “for the kids” since none ever come up here.  I have this here for me.  And I’m lovin’ it!


© D. Dean Boone, October 2016


Categories: Encouragement, Inspirational, Tell-A-Story-Make-A-Point | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Q(uiet) T(ime) M(usings) for Valentine’s Day, 2018: THIS ISN’T WHAT YOU THINK, NOR SHOULD IT BE

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A fellow decided to buy his girl some perfume for Valentine’s day, so he went to the cosmetic counter in his girl’s favorite store. The prices were horrific! No matter what the sales lady showed him, even the tiniest bottles were beyond his budget.

Finally, he asked her: “Can you show me something really cheap?”

She handed him a mirror.

Every guy reading this just winced and cringed. 

There’s something wrong with that.

Let me get to the point.

  • Where did we arrive at the notion we guys are responsible for making all the effort?  Wash and wax the wheels . . . candy . . . flowers . . . expensive this or that . . . Don’t misunderstand.  It’s normal to want to give your sweetie something nice, something unexpected.  But when you’re made to feel like something the neighbor tracked in because you’re not buying/doing what everyone on Facebook says they are? 

That’s the point.

Social pressure lays it on thick:  get your sorry carcass out there and buy her ( whatever the TV commercials have convinced you she’s got to have if you’re any kind of man ) so she doesn’t have to sit at home with her poochie lips hanging over the half-eaten pizza.

What if you can’t?  What if life has intruded, and you’re unable to do much other than struggle through the red/pink/white/purple sea of cards to find one that works?  Are you less of a man because you sit, scrolling down through everyone else’s Facebook drool, seeing pictures from exotic places and reading accounts of the fantastic dinner and evening they had or plan to have?

That’s the not-so-subtle message sent by the snooty, imperious saleslady at the Dillard’s perfume counter.  I think when they’re hired, part of their training is to learn how to arch one eyebrow, quirk their mouth and slightly wrinkle their nose as if getting a whiff of something from the dumpster.  She never mentioned the only scents she offered him were the ones she couldn’t afford to wear, either, unless she worked there, even with a generous employee discount.  It’s written all over her face:  “You—you’re disgusting !  Vermin!”

What if love, for you, means cooking a simple meal so your sick wife doesn’t have to?  What if it means reminding you of your own hardworking dad’s passing on Valentine’s Day?

“If you love me, you’ll buy me something I don’t need and I know isn’t in your budget” is shallow and demeaning, whether you intend it to be or not.  This is no appeal to let cheapskates remain that way.  There’s something else true under the sun.  More than one guy somehow thinks buying something gaudy once a year, or taking ‘the little woman’ out to Freddie’s Frozen Custard for an unforgettable night on the town will make up for 364 days of immaturity, self-interest and taking her for granted.

As a centering method of appreciating what real love is, may I suggest spending a little thoughtful time today in 1 John chapters 3 and 4?

This is the kind of love we are talking about–not that we once upon a time loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as a sacrifice to clear away our sins and the damage they’ve done to our relationship with God . . . . First we were loved, now we love.  He loved us first. ~ 1 John 4:10, 19

By all means, if you’re able, find a special gift for your spouse.  Treat her to a fine meal.  Take her to a play or concert or a favorite movie.  Do it in gratitude to God, who’s made it possible. 

If you’re not, don’t be driven by the glitzy pap of a foolish world that’s largely abandoned any understanding of love.  Be the special gift for your spouse.  Be the best man you can be for her.  Do your best to honor the spirit of these two chapters, written by a guy who’d spent time with the Savior.

You’ll find ‘Valentines Day’ will mean more than the foil ornaments that are already beginning to hit the 70% OFF! bins in WalMart.

© D. Dean Boone, February 2018



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Granger – QTMs for 2/8/18: “SOMEBODY NEEDS WHAT YOU HAVE.”

Armando stopped wiping the tabletop with his right hand.

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He’d just gathered and stacked dishes, cups and flatware in his left hand, going through motions he’d practiced from long experience in cleaning up after others had eaten.  Gather and lift with left hand, wipe the table with the right, set the dishes in the bussing tray, straighten the condiments.  Done it thousands of times.  It was his job, and he was good at it.  He could turn his mind off, still the gnawing, accusing voices, losing himself in his work.

What made him pause was the neatly folded note he’d uncovered as he lifted up the dinner plate.  On the top, the guy who’d sat here had neatly printed a message:


Brow wrinkled, he took the bussing tray full of dishes in, rinsed them and got the dishwasher load going.  Then he asked Peggy Sue if she’d read it to him.  As she adjusted her glasses and craned her neck to read, she smiled.

“That was Granger.”  Here a wistful note crept into her voice.  “I recognize his handwriting.”  She went on to read what he’d written to Armando inside the note.

It’s obvious you take pride in doing

a job few seek, let alone do with the

grace and attention to detail by which

you make me and others want to return.

The respect you show to all, your appearance,

and your attitude have been noticed.  Perform

your duties from here on in the same manner.

Remember these days of humble service.

They are but a training ground for God’s next

mission for you.

Thank you for making my day.

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As the busy server hustled off to deliver another order, Armando stood there baffled.  He doesn’t know me; other than “Good morning,” we’ve rarely spoken.  What’s he–  Where–  Peggy Sue stopped to make fresh coffee, and Armando made eye contact with her.

“Who is he?  Why me?”

” ‘Mando, I don’t know much about him.  He doesn’t come in often.  But every time he does, there’s just something good and gentle here— he leaves smiles in his wake.  It’s like the air’s a little cleaner.  He’s always saying how blessed and grateful he is, he always has a kind word, some sort of encouragement.  It feels better after he’s been here.”  As she turned to go, her next words stunned him, for Peggy Sue was no shrinking starry-eyed gum chewer.  “Personally, I think he’s an angel in disguise.”

The industrious busboy caught himself during the rest of his shift pausing every so often, slipping a hand inside the hip pocket of his Goodwill jeans and rubbing the texture of the paper the note was written on.  How could he have known I was ready to give up, to quit?

” ‘Mando?  Drop by my office when you get a minute.”  It was Joe, one of the owners.  Armando’s heart bobbed to his throat, riding the flood of his apprehension and insecurity.  Hesitantly, dreading what was surely coming next, he tapped on the door.

Wait.  Joe was smiling, standing up.  ” ‘Mando, I’ve been watching how conscientious you are.  I’ve asked around, and whenever you’re on duty, nobody ever has to worry about your work being done–and done well.  You never complain, you’re always here on time, and if there’s ever a scheduling issue, you always work with us.  How’d you like to try your hand at cooking?”

Cook?  Generous raise?  Speechless, he just nodded.  “Fantastic!  Be here to open in the morning, and I’ll have Slim show you the ropes.”

We’ve all trudged in Armando’s shoes.  Why do I keep this up?  Why bother?  I do my best, to give my best, only to watch others who haven’t get rewarded as if they had.  In some cases, they’ve taken credit for work I know was mine.  I don’t do it for the notice, but even a little would be nice.  It gets real tiresome to be clockwork-dependable, only to watch others more popular or younger or better-looking or—or whatever always get the nod.  I mean, how long do I bat cleanup?  How long do I go around quietly cleaning up others’ messes?  Nobody cares, nobody notices.  No one knows the hours I put into working to be my best.

It could go on a long time, couldn’t it?  And I’m not talking about an immature attitude.  We’re dealing here with stuff that can go on for years, right?  You putting in ‘sweat-equity’, only to have some flashy bigmouth blow in the door and take everyone’s attention?

Frustration.  Tension headaches, maybe even migraines.  Injustice.  Pampered, coddled coworkers.  Smoldering anger. Stoked rage.

Here’s the deal:  somebody needs what you have.

Yeah, you.  God keeps perfect records.  He’s been watching all the time.  And when He knows the time’s right, He’ll open new doors and shut others.  When God does the opening and closing, it’s a permanent thing.

You may be in Armando’s worn-out shoes; I don’t know.

Just don’t quit.  Keep doing the superior work, offering the sparkling service you’re known for.


© D. Dean Boone, February 2018






Categories: Encouragement, Inspirational, Tell-A-Story-Make-A-Point | Tags: , , | 3 Comments

2nd Cup of Coffee, 1/2/18: REMEMBERING WILLIAM W. TROMBLE

Bill Tromble was one of my brothers. I’m convinced God introduced Bill to my sister, Joella, so I’d have the privilege of hanging around him. Though roughly 20 years his junior, I counted him as one of my birth siblings and treated him thus. That takes away nothing from my two terrific blood brothers; it means Bill was somebody that special.

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Though we never spoke on the subject, he seemed to effortlessly assume that role. My life has been strengthened, informed, and enriched because of my big brother, Bill.

I’m an Intuitive. I observe things and people without meaning to, often knowing things instinctively.  As a kid, I wasn’t aware of it. As an adult, I learned to trust those instincts. I couldn’t isolate why, yet I knew spending whatever time I could with Bill Tromble was a smart investment.

Prior to enlisting in the U.S. Air Force, I stayed with Bill and Jo for a few months. Though a very busy, involved professional, Bill took time to teach me the games of tennis and chess.   I held my own against him in tennis. Chess was an abysmal disaster. He allowed me to beat him one time; from then forward I rarely saw where he’d been unless, in pity, he slowed down and explained the dissection.

While living with Bill and Jo, I watched and learned. I gathered social skills from watching him I’d never have otherwise known were necessary: Bill was a class act without being stuffy. He taught me how to be an adept in any social setting. He widened my spiritual palette, showing me colors that spoke to my creative side, while never once causing me to question the rock-solid foundations of his personal faith.

God gifted Bill Tromble with a keen mind he never stopped honing. Often after discussing this or that, I was reminded of how privileged a man I’ve been in having a towering intellect like Bill’s as a resource. Even better, then, that he was my brother.

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In this life, we tend to be so hurried and harried that we overlook the obvious until we slow down enough to scan our backtrail. Though our only sustained personal time was those months prior to my military service, Bill was always accessible to me. I could pick the phone up and always have an audience with him if he was available. Never once did I feel he was tolerating me or being condescending, though he could easily have justified it.

My big brother Bill really was that bright, that purposeful, that professional. No subject was off limits. He was able to easily, smoothly converse at any intellectual level. He was willing and able to articulate his personal faith with me, willing to slow his amazing mind to accommodate my plodding questions.

I’ve no idea what life would’ve been like, had Bill and I been closer in age. Yet I believe it would have been pretty special; for what he and I shared was wonderful for me. I’m forever grateful God gave me a big brother like Bill. I consider myself fortunate and blessed to have had his influence in my life.

My world’s a little dimmer because Bill’s not here.

© D. Dean Boone, January 2018

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2nd Cup of Coffee, 12/25/17: WHAT’S THE BIG DEAL ABOUT ‘EMMANUEL’?

If you don’t know what Emmanuel means by now, Google it.  You haven’t been listening.

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We all tend to hang a haloed Jesus on the tree.  Eye him on an old canvas painted by a 16th Century artist.  Or it’s convenient to leave Him forever a needy, shivering baby in countless creches.  Those remembrances are worth something, to be sure.  Yet they miss the point.

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‘With’ means where I am right now.  “Emmanuel” means Jesus actively walking with His men and/or women right through life’s hairiest trials.  Those accounts are scattered throughout both Old and New Testaments, reminding us of two vital things . . .

  • God never has allowed us to become weak by totally shielding us from life’s whitewater rapids.

  • God never has allowed us to ride those hard experiences alone:  He’s been right there with us.


You’re getting that “WITH US” part, right?  THAT, friend, is the vital truth of Christmas:  that God, through the Person and Living of Jesus, was willing to step down out of the splendid, unimaginable, unending Glory that is His normal atmosphere and join you and me.

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Yeah.  Right here, right now, right smack in the middle of this untidy, crazy life we’ve created for ourselves.

I know, right?  GOD.  With you.  With me.  WITH.  Not aloof, above, or apart from.  WITH.  THROUGH.

Remember that the next time you’re thinking to God, “Do You have a CLUE what this is like for me?”

He’ll be right there, slowly nodding–with one huge hand reaching down to help you back up.

He can do that because He entered our world the same way we do; grew up and lived like one of us; then, when He knew Time was ripe, He did the God part none of us, even on our best day, could not.  Jesus stepped off into Death’s cold, impersonal flow.  Jesus personally experienced separation from God so none of us who ever receive our King have to!

So, yeah.  That whole Emmanuel thing?  “God with us”?

That’s a pretty big deal!  Get that thing out from under the tree, unwrap that puppy, let it spark and sparkle and empower you.  If there’s a single Christmas theme that ought to be bouncing off the walls of Time and Eternity, it ought to be THIS ONE:

“God IS with me!  And He’s WITH YOU!” 

No matter how it feels, or what you think, you.  are.  not.  alone.

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Loving you,


© D. Dean Boone, December 25, 2017

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“D’oh!  I WISH we could just ______________________________!”

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Really?  I’ve often wished God would immediately give “I-WISHers” exactly what they just demanded.  Individually.  Immediately.  Since He alone sees Past-Present-Future all at once, He’s able to pull a Cosmic switcheroo and make everything and everyone around the “I-WISHer” exactly as it and they would be, if they’d gotten their way.

Yeah.  Kind of like your own private A Christmas Carol visitation from all three ghosts at once.

I’ve been hearing an recurring complaint about Christmas, which, of course, is actually a complaint about Christ.  Without Him, nothing about Christmas makes any sense.  It seems to be a cyclical whine, since I remember preaching a Christmas message 17 years ago, “WHAT IF JESUS HAD NOT COME?”

Messages are boring; I get it.  Let me see if I can make it interesting for you.

“Man, I’m SICK of all this ‘Jesus-this, Jesus-that’ junk!  Can’t we just have a nice Christmas without all that?”



If God had not come here in the form of Jesus, there would be no Christmas.  Though Christmas cards are swiftly disappearing in favor of social media pictures and up-to-date posts, there would be neither.  There might be such solstice décor as pine boughs, but there’d be little reason to hang holly wreaths and cedar branches.

There’d be no colorful packages, no trees with twinkling lights, no scented Christmas candles.  Why?  NO CHRISTMAS.

There wouldn’t be any carols.  No Away In A Manger or Joy To The World, The Lord Is Come–because He didn’t.

I remember as a boy loving to walk along the frozen sidewalks downtown and looking through frosty store windows at the decorations, while listening to Hark, The Herald Angels SingWhite Christmas and Silver Bells playing over loudspeakers along main street in our little town of Hermiston, Oregon.  I was always reassured that Christmas was finally here when the city workers hung the huge Christmas ornaments on light poles in the main downtown area, and lighted them.

None of that would have happened.  On the radio, nothing would be playing that distinguishes December from June.  Same old stuff, except merchants would have ice melt and snow shovels in display.  No big deal.  It’s just December; come on New Year’s party!  WHY?  NO CHRISTMAS.

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If God had not come here in the form of Jesus, there would be no Church as we know it.  No stunning sanctuaries . . . no soaring spires pointing toward Heaven . . . no services of praise and worship . . . no meeting each week in churches you’d grown up in, sensing God’s presence and feeling the Holy Spirit doing His work.  No gathering for Christmas Eve and Christmas programs, or hearing a choir and orchestra perform Handel’s MESSIAH.  WHY?  THERE NEVER WAS ONE.  You DO recall Jesus came to tell us about God, right?  And He said if He didn’t go away again, the Holy Spirit couldn’t come . . .

If there was anything resembling a hymnal, it’d be thin, if it had anything of worth in it at all.  There’d be NO songs about Jesus, His birth, life, death, resurrection and return.  Nothing in it about Christ’s glory, power, and redemption.  No Old Rugged Cross, no Great Is Thy Faithfulness or How Great Thou Art.  No Jesus here, folks.  Move along.

What about those ugly, forgettable days of dark grief when depression, loneliness, temptation and heartache all seem to be tag-teaming you?  We’ve all had those, and it’s during those heart-shredding moments when a verse of an old hymn seems to seep through the cold, impersonal hurt like an old family friend dropping by for coffee.  But if Jesus had never come, there’d have been none of them written.  Think about it.

If God had not come here in the form of Jesus, there’d be no comfort for the dying, and those who grieve for them.  If there was such a thing as a religious book, there’d be none of the beloved, favorite Scripture passages you’ve relied on all your life to offer strength, hope, and wisdom. 

What there was would likely end with Malachi, and God’s people having dwindled and drifted during the 400 years of the “No-Jesus, No-God” types getting their way.  If the prophetic books were allowed to remain, they’d be so redacted and rewritten that there would be NO mention of a coming Savior, of deliverance from bondage.  None of that would have any meaning.  NO GOSPEL, NO HOPE–BECAUSE THERE IS NO JESUS.

At the memorial service, there are no comforting passages of Scripture, words of assurance and comfort.  No consolation, no concept of the hope of a wonderful resurrection.  There’s no serious thought of ever meeting that loved one again, and no eternal home in Heaven.

Just “ashes to ashes and dust to dust”, and one long, sad, eternal farewell.  No inspiration from Job’s saying, “I know that my Redeemer lives . . .”  WHY?  BECAUSE THERE IS NO REDEEMER.  You’re out of luck.  You lived.  You died.

About now, you might be getting the point.  Enemies of Christ don’t get to pick and choose which benefits of God’s Grace they want to hang onto, while tossing in the dumpster all that Jesus stuff that makes ’em squirm.  Or mad.

There’s a reason the old carol advises all the faithful to be joyful and triumphant.  A reason why Bethlehem’s stable is still such a King-size bed.  This wasn’t – isn’t – just a divine being who came to temporarily make things a little better for a few.

Jesus came to offer some real-word, honest-to-goodness hope–to everyone who’d receive it!

Be glad!  Rejoice!  Jesus DID come, He DID live among us as our example, and He DID die and rise from death so we can also live!  Jesus IS alive forever!  As one of my mentors wrote:

Even kids know it.  Recently, a little boy was telling his younger brother who Jesus is.  Nodding, he wisely said, “Jesus is that guy with God in him.  And it’s not a costume.  He’s for real.”  In some small way, we all have God inside us.  Not because we bought God, like some holiday present, but because God is willing to come inside the worst possible moment we have ever had.  When we can see no hope nor possibility for happiness, along comes December with the unbelievable Good News that Christmas changes everything.  It’s for real.  And you can’t buy it.” —Tom Shane, The Newton Kansan, 12/12/00

2nd Cup friend, we’ve all seen what our nation and world looks like with the influence of Christ and His Church among us.  I doubt anyone, no matter how jaded or self-absorbed, seriously wants any part of a society or world where there is permanently no Christ.

They had already seen 400 years of that, and all but gave up hope of things ever being good or decent or praiseworthy again.  All their political and religious gurus had convinced them it was never going to be any better again.  Get used to it.

Then Jesus came.  Defying all odds, and all the prognostications of the brains of their time, Jesus showed up exactly how God had foretold through the prophets He would.

And aren’t you forever glad He did?

© D. Dean Boone, December 2017



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The SUMMER OF My DISSONANCE – A Granger Story – Chapter 4

He stood comfortably in the predawn quietness and drew the darkness around himself like one of those impossibly-thick hotel robes.  I don’t think I even moved; I mean, I was a-sleep!  To say this was his favorite time of day would understate its place in his life.  Normally, he turned on a lamp or something to provide a bit of light. 

This morning seemed so perfect he chose not to insult the easy, soft approach of daylight, opting instead for carefully navigating by the ghostly-blue light under the fresh-ground, perking pot through the still-shadowy interior of his temporary home away from home.  At least I didn’t stumble over the bear’s head.  Can’t.  Isn’t one. 

Smiling to himself, he realized again the wisdom of leaving the head off that luxurious, thick bearskin rug.  I’m just one more visitor here.  Others have found this spot crucial to their own spirit’s recovery.  Wonder who the first guy was to trip over that bear’s skull and dance around holding his toes?  Or maybe the one who left the rug here had thought it through first, reasoning how many there’d be like me across the years who would be unfamiliar with this place, while being so desperately needy of it?

Granger stood leaning against the inside of the cabin door, sipping from his first cup of hot, fresh coffee.  He’d dressed in mountain chic:  soft, worn jeans, equally soft white tee and plaid green flannel shirt with sleeves half-rolled up.  His feet were toasty in the shearling leather slippers he’d found beside the bed when–  How’d he know what size shoes I wear?  If he weren’t a believer, Granger could easily be spooked by all the seemingly random indicators that someone who knew him very well had prepped this place for his extended visit. 

Grinning to himself, he mentally added a hash mark on the refrigerator door whiteboard of his mind.  One more. . .  He stood there, sipping coffee, lost in that comfortable place where thoughts go to rest.

Stepping across the wide porch, he tossed the dregs of his now-cool coffee over the edge into the rich, verdant forest carpet.  Time for a fresh cup of hot joe, his trademark.  Moving easily through the yawning morning’s light beginning to sneak its way through the cabin’s interior, he poured another brimming cup, noticing once more the canister that seemed to glow as if with its own source of light.  I need to ask him about that canister.

He’d long since established the habit of preparing the means of coffeemaking the night before so all that was needed in the morning was flip on the switch – or, in this case, turn on the gas burner on the beautifully-kept old range.  Odd.  There was little time difference between his electronic coffeemaker at home and this old blue granite pot setting atop a gas burner in this mountain cabin. 

Neither pot nor reservoir filled itself.  He still had to grind the beans and measure the grounds into the filters.  In actual minutes, he doubted there was any appreciable difference.  Granger was struck again at how obliviously preoccupied people had become because of microwaves and the Internet.  “Patience?  Don’t have time for it.  Gotta run.”  Shaking his head, he unselfconsciously ran his flannel rolled cuff around the bottom of his coffee mug, absorbing the dribble of java that had innocently slid its way down.  It’s what flannel in the mountains was made for.

Stopping to light the fire he’d laid the night before, his mind refused to let go of the rolled cuff of his flannel shirt.  Jeans and flannel shirt was his unofficial uniform ever since boyhood.  It was still his ‘go-to’ comfort clothing as a senior adult.  Even in the early years of marriage when they had little but each other, buoyed by future hopes and dreams, they both invested in jeans, flannel shirts and western boots.  There may have been just enough left over for a shared Pepsi, but at least they both looked comfortable.  Then came life, careers, families, illness, and death.  Through it all, Granger could be found, usually with coffee, in–what else?  Comfortable, well-broken-in jeans and a flannel shirt with rolled sleeves.

She mentioned at one point she loved seeing pictures of him sitting easily, coffee cup in one hand, long sleeves rolled haphazardly up his arms.  Wonder what she’s doing right now?  Is she thinking of me as I do of her?  Or does she think of me at all?  Does she remember how often I think of her and pray for her?  How much my grown-up heart is still enchanted by that girl she was, wondering about the woman she now is, of the life she’s lived to this point?  Does she still believe that—

Physically shaking his head, Granger knew letting such thoughts go for long was pointless.  Then he was rudely snatched back to his ‘now’, the match having burned close to his fingers.  She’d fill the room with that beautiful laughter at my weird dance while shaking my hand and sucking on my finger.  How I’d love to hear her laugh like that again.  I guess laughing at myself will have to do, along with the squirrels and crows.  Right?

Taking his Bible, steno pad and pen, he curled a big finger through the mug’s handle.  It was oversized, very black outside and green inside, with COFFEE made me do it! printed on the outside.  Whoever this is, they must collect coffee mugs like I do.  Smiling and at peace, Granger carried his coffee and writing material out onto the porch.  Laying pad, pen and The Message down on the rocker’s cushion, he used an old purple kitchen towel left on a support of the table to wipe off the table’s top.  Taking the towel over and draping it over the porch railing to dry, he stood there for a moment, hunched and leaning on his straightened arms.

He could hear small sounds signaling the mountain morning commute was not far off.  Birds were muttering back and forth, flittering about who needed to get up first and prepare worm breakfast.  Wonder what birds have in their cups first thing in the morning?  Drawing in a deep breath of the moist, cool, fragrant air, he scanned the area around the cabin and turned to the old rocker.  Settling himself onto the faded, orange cushion and the old quilt, he quieted himself to receive what things God would have to say to him this morning.

Picking up the pen, he noticed a yellow ladybug resolutely walking along the edge of the table.  Watching it, he thought again of how amazing God’s creativity is on so many things in this life.  Raising his eyes out across the shadowed forest spaces between trees, his eyes unfocused as he sipped some more of the steaming coffee.  To a writer, trivia isn’t.  Everything attaches to something else, for what seems Trivial Pursuit to the unwashed is, to a writer’s mind, Research.

He remembered reading somewhere that there are over 300 different types of ladybugs in the U.S., that there is no set number of spots on their shell, and that they can be red, orange, yellow, pink, even white, and that their spots tend to become lighter with age.  Okay, God, I’m jealous.  With us, age spots get darker and more prevalent, while LADYBUG spots get dimmer with age?

He grinned at himself again, leaving the ladybug to whatever mission his diminutive guest was on and focused on his thoughts.

Pulling the pad closer, he jotted the date in the upper left corner of the blank page, then began to do what seemed to be both his greatest love and greatest challenge.  He began to write his thoughts, his closely-held feelings on the paper as his personality, memories, desires, hopes and dreams soaked into the page.  It was a strange transubstantiation, as if the plain ink of the basic black PaperMate Inkjoy mysteriously merged with his liquid thoughts to produce a warm, throbbing, crimson surge—the lifeblood of everything he loved, yearned for and wanted to do and be.

He hesitated in his writing, glancing down at what he’d written.  It was as if his hand and the pen were going on about the mechanics of writing while his  mind and spirit were huddled together over coffee.  Without conscious thought, he fell easily into the habit of those most often alone, reading his written words aloud:  “This place is everything my soul and bruised spirit could ever want.  I just wish I had someone with whom to share it.”

 “You do.”

 The voice sounded so close he almost dropped the pad as he stood and glanced up and around to see who had spoken.  It was that clear, yet with a strange resonance that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.

Grinning self-consciously at his shock, he spoke into the cool mountain dawn.  “That’s You, isn’t it, Lord?”  The silence was profound, equally as stirring as the unexpected nearness and clarity of the voice.

 “Lord?”  Nothing, blanketed with thick stillness, much like the coated air inside a sound booth.  Hesitantly, slightly puzzled, Granger remembered the lesson of the previous evening, centered around that rocker.  Slowly he sat back down, adjusting his hips to a slightly more comfortable position as he sank into the worn cushion of the old rocker.

Instantly came the voice.  “I know you’re lonesome, and I know why.” 

Everything in Granger seemed to hold its breath.  There are times to talk and there are times to listen.  Granger told himself that, and squirmed slightly because a thousand questions began peppering his mind.  As he did, he heard a rustling sound.  Wiggling again, he heard it again.  Frowning, he got up and raised the cushion.  Under it,  he saw a folded sheet of paper laying there with a few yellowed pine needles on it.  The paper had that rubbed sheen on it, like it had been there for a long time.  The corners were rounded, fringy.

He took a deep breath, sensing something different was happening.  Since the day he’d first arrived at the cabin, he’d sat in the old rocker several times and never heard the sound.  Hesitantly, he reached for the paper, unfolding it and beginning to read.

             I couldn’t handle the solitude.  It was too quiet here.  I could hear myself thinking and I wasn’t ready to face the truth I saw in myself.  I’m not doing this ‘alone’ thing very well, yet.  I came here to heal and to write, but I’m no writer.  Nobody reads what I write.  I get polite requests now and then; but nothing has ever come of it.  The more I write, the less it seems anybody notices or cares.  I’m done here.  I used the rest of my time here to get this place ready for you.  I pray you succeed where I failed.

He sank slowly back down into the cushion, hot tears making it hard to see.  How, God?  Why—  When—  He raised his brimming eyes to look out across the beautiful forest panorama, pulling his coffee up in his trembling right hand to take a sip and clear the taste of his heart that had somehow lodged in his throat.  The black mug with the green interior was almost empty.  Grinning ruefully at himself, he muttered, “Draining the cup without refueling?  That can’t be good.”

He rose and wandered into the kitchen to refill his cup, then padded quietly back through the living room, slowing so he wouldn’t stumble over the thick bear rug.  Hesitating, he knelt and ruffled his left hand through the coarse, thick hair.  What was your story, old boy?  Were you lonely, too?  How long did you have to spend by yourself before God intervened?  Pensive, Granger knew he was dipping himself in a Pity Pool and needed to knock it off.   With fresh tears he walked back out onto the porch and stood for a few seconds, eyes focused inward. 

Taking in a deep breath, he headed down the three steps.  He almost missed the bottom one, spilling a few drops of hot coffee on his jeans.  Absently, he gazed through tears at the damp spot, bending and dabbing at it with his shirtsleeve as the sharp pain returned him to reality’s now.

Standing again, he took slow, measured steps out among the trees.  There was always something timeless about the woods, reminding him of his boyhood treks with his dad.  He sought the peace and sighing, soughing comfort the forest has always offered to all who appreciate them.

Behind him, up on the porch, the yellow ladybug was now crawling across the opened sheet of once-white paper laying on the cushion of the old rocker.  It was as if the little insect was pointing to the name of the one who’d written the note.   

It was signed,  Granger.


Categories: Inspirational, Tell-A-Story-Make-A-Point | 1 Comment


I cherish good truth wherever I find it.

This great post was in last Friday’s mail.  It speaks so well I chose not to editorialize.

A newlywed young man was sitting on the porch on a hot, humid day, sipping iced tea with his father.  As he talked about adult life, marriage, responsibilities, and obligations, the father thoughtfully listened.  He stirred the ice cubes in his glass and, when the son grew reflective and quiet, his dad cast a clear, sober look on his son. 

“Never forget your friends,” he advised, “they will become more important as you get older.  Regardless of how much you love your family and the children you happen to have, you will always need friends. Remember to go out with them occasionally, do activities with them, call them . . .”

“What strange advice!” Thought the young man. “I just entered the married world, I am an adult and surely my wife and the family that we will start will be everything I need to make sense of my life.”

Yet he obeyed his father. He kept in touch with his friends and annually increased their number. Over the years, he became aware that his father knew what he was talking about.  Inasmuch as time and nature carry out their designs and mysteries on a man, friends were the bulwarks of his life.

After 60 years of life, here is what he learned:

Time passes.

Life goes on.

Distance separates. 

Children grow up and become independent; it breaks the parents’ hearts, but the children become separated from the parents.

Jobs come and go.

Illusions, desires, attraction, sex–they weaken and change.

People do not do what they should do.

The heart breaks.

Parents die. 

Siblings die. 

Spouses die.

Colleagues forget the favors.

The races are over.

See the source image

But true friends are always there, no matter how many miles away they are, or for how long you’ve been separated.

A friend is never nearer than the reach of a need, intervening in your favor, waiting for you with open arms or blessing your life.

When we started this adventure called LIFE, we did not know of the incredible joys or sorrows that were ahead. We did not know how much we would need from each other. Love your parents, take care of your children, and keep a group of good friends too.

[Attributed to Jerry Lambert]

Tell me what you think.  Some things in this life we deem important that, looking back, have little or no value at all.  They were the tinsel, the ribbon on the real packages.

The true gifts, like the Giver of all good gifts, were obscured by the immediate glitz of the bright wrapping paper, what we thought was important.  Well, friend, both of us have seen our wrapping paper dull a little, if it still exists.  After sixty-some years, there’s little it once hid we don’t now see and appreciate more.

Some of you are close, old, trusted friends.  At this stage of living, it’s a thing of rare joy to occasionally see your name and picture on social media and remember you.  I remember as a kid getting missionary and Christian worker ‘prayer cards’ stuck in my hand, whether I wanted them or not.  I now use our Facebook communication as a means of lifting you, your friendship, and your expressed or implied needs to God.  I know I can trust Him to watch over you and yours, even while expecting Him to do the same for me.

It is equally a joysome thing to be remembered.  For you, my dear, old friend, take a moment and think of our shared past.  Consider the rich texture of our enduring friendship, mixing across years and miles like smooth milk chocolate and creamy caramel swirling together in the mixing bowl you just dipped your finger in.

And likely got smacked.  It was worth it, though–hunh?

See the source imageI’ve no way of knowing where these 2nd Cup posts eventually land.  I know many read whom I’ll never personally know nor meet this side of God’s Heaven.

For you, my wish is that you stop right now, taking a few moments to reconnect with your own treasured collection of old friends.  Reach over and open that package of who they are, and what they mean to you.  While you’re doing that, remind yourself . . .

They don’t come any better.  And you’ve got some of the best.

© D. Dean Boone, December 2017



Categories: Common Sense, Encouragement, Wisdom | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

A Granger Story – 11/28/17: THERE’S JUST SOMETHING ABOUT THAT GUY . . .

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The November wind blustered and fretted outside the cozy diner’s windows.  That early in the morning, I was the lone patron.

I was enjoying my first cup of Jimmie’s great coffee as I gathered my thoughts and began to write.  Trixie was keeping my cup full with her usual attention to detail that made her one of the finest servers I’d ever had the pleasure to know.

Her deep blue poodle skirt and pink bobby socks contrasted the burnished mahogany of her skin.  A hot pink scarf tied in a bow completed the ensemble for which Jimmie’s Diner had been known since its inception.

“Nice earbobs.”

Trixie quirked an eyebrow.  “You rather I didn’t have any on?  Can’t show up here ‘thout big, dangly earbobs, as you call ’em.  I was in a hurry, and these turquoise ones were close at hand.  Deal with it.”  The cook whistled his trademark three sharp blasts, signaling my food was ready.  So was I.

Sipping coffee, my mind refocused on my writing notes.  Increasingly, I found myself always having something encouraging to write, even when not working on a specific project.  It seems there are so many individuals struggling with life burdens; there’s always some lifting of someone else’s spirit to do . . .

“Here you go, dear.”  Trixie laid the food before me, including the extra napkins.  The steam rising carried the tantalizing aromas of eggs, potatoes and hamburger steak with onions fried into it, making my empty stomach mutter in anticipation.

See the source imageI’d just poured hot, creamy hollandaise over my country potatoes and was searching through the little wire jelly holder when she returned with a brimming pot of fresh coffee, topping off my cup.  She stood there as I pulled out the eight or ten little plastic rectangles.  When she’d had enough fun, she reached into one of those pockets the Jimmie’s servers always had on their aprons and pulled out four packets of peach jelly.  Wordlessly, but smirking, she held them out.

Now I squinched my eyes up at her.  “Anything you don’t keep in those pockets?  I heard you had your lunch in there last week, and somebody said you park your Smart car in there so you always have your own parking space.”  We shared a good laugh, her rich alto filling the space around us.

“No Smart car for me, man.  Hunh-uh.  I want some room for these bones, and no Smart car gonna cut it.”  She took the coffee pot back to its warmer, still chuckling to herself as she crossed the small diner’s interior back to my booth.

“I’m looking forward to reading the book you’re working on about your healing.  Just being around you, I can tell the story’s one I need to know.”  Her eyes scanned the room, assuring she wasn’t ignoring another patron who might’ve wandered in.  They hadn’t.  She wasn’t.

I sat back, thanking her.  “I suppose I was as naïve as anyone else when I began, thinking this a cakewalk.  I like to write.  Actually, I love to write, so . . . ”

“So you figured it’d be a few months’ worth of work, and BAMMO.  Instant book.”  I sat observing her expressive eyes, holding a knowing wisdom belying what some thought her humble job to be.  I knew better.  Trixie, which was one of the stage names each of the Jimmie’s servers adopted, held a bachelor’s degree in economics and was an avid reader.  I just nodded.  “It’s been years.  And the story just keeps building.”

Stifling a yawn, I caught her amused look as, comically wide-eyed, she mimed hurrying to refill my coffee.  I’d just started to say, “But turquoise?  Really?” when I noticed movement at the diner’s entrance.  Jimmie’s has a small foyer of sorts with two short benches in it, and a man had quietly been sitting there.

He wore a well-used tan canvas coat with green and black plaid lining.  His wash-whitened jeans were torn at the left knee, though it looked like he’d tried to patch them; and an old black “MIZZOU TIGERS” sweatshirt completed the winter wear.  The visitor’s brownish-gray hair was a few weeks into needing attention.  When he saw Trixie and me looking his direction, he stood.

“I’m sorry.  I knew it’d be warm in here.  I’ll be on my way.”  His manner was dejected, but his voice was calm and well-modulated.

Something in his manner puzzled me.  Without thinking, I said, “Wait!”  I walked to the entrance where another couple with a kid in a yellow mohawk was just coming in.  “How about a cup of coffee?”  I gestured toward my booth.  His deepset, intelligent blue eyes evaluated me for a few brief seconds before he walked that direction.  This guy doesn’t do charity well. 

I motioned for him to sit down as I looked for Trixie.  I needn’t have bothered; she was halfway to us with his coffee.  “Welcome to Jimmie’s.  I just brewed this pot fresh.”

I watched over the brim of my coffee mug as he shed his heavy coat.  He gratefully made eye contact with Trixie, thanking her for the coffee.  I could tell it pleased her.  I could tell it was a habit for him.  I could tell my food was rapidly cooling.

“I don’t often have guests this early.  How about some breakfast?  I dislike eating in front of others.  My treat.”  Without waiting for an answer, I glanced at Trixie, waiting to catch her eye while she glared at The Mohawk Kid playing with the red ketchup squeeze bottle on his parents’ table.  At least I assumed them to be his parents.  I couldn’t fathom a sane couple picking that one for a family.  I bobbed my head toward my visitor.  She nodded, coming over and laying one of the menus before him she’d been standing there holding for the kid’s parents.

He scanned it, told her his choices, and surrendered the menu.  We both heard her tell the parents, “Here are menus.  I’ll be back for your order.”  I know Trixie.  She’d rather use a Dremel tool on her teeth than serve kids like the one with the saffron Mohawk.  He’d already managed to tip the glass sugar jar over, living up to his Calvin & Hobbes tee.

“This coffee’s good!”  His comment jerked my attention back where it belonged.  Hands cupped around the mug, warming up, he pointed with his chin toward the open writing pad and asked, “What are you doing?”  He raised his eyes to mine, waiting.  It was pleasant, being in company with someone who understands good communication techniques.

“I’m encouraging others.”

His eyes widened slightly as he looked up.  After a beat or two, his face darkened slightly and he remarked, “I’m afraid it won’t do much good for me.  It seems everybody who means anything in my life makes sure the past always trumps now.  It’s like they don’t want me to be new, to break away from who and where I’ve been  They’d prefer I stay within the box they’re familiar with.”

He took a big swig of his coffee, swallowed, then said, “Nobody believes in me.”  I’ve heard my share of petulant adults with little regard for anyone else’s feelings or thoughts.  I wasn’t hearing that.  He said it in a dispassionate, reflective voice, his brow unlined and face at rest.

Sometimes things pop into one’s mind unbidden.  I looked at him and said, “I do.”  Taking a big bite of juicy, flavorful meat and country potatoes, I sat observing him.  His food had come and he busied himself preparing it to eat.  I ate while he continued.  When he was done, he slid his fork beneath a big bite of pancake and then said, “Why?  You don’t know me and I’ve never seen you before.”

I smiled.  “I don’t have to.  I believe in others by choice.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t allow others’ opinions to shadow my own instincts.  I’ve suffered enough judgmental fools and been misread and misunderstood often enough I know better than to let somebody else’s ideas color the reputation or backstory of someone I’ve just met.”

Trixie’d just refilled our coffee cups.  I sat appreciating its smoky, rich flavor for a moment, then finished my thoughts.

“I believe God’s able to take your Now and multiply it–just as He did with those dinner rolls and fish filets on that hillside.  Where or who you’ve been isn’t close to being as important as where you’re headed, and who you want to be.  To me, the real question is, do you believe in you?”

My visitor had been dabbing up the last bit of syrup with a final bite of pancake.  The motion stopped halfway to his mouth as he seemed to evaluate my words.

“Do you write the same way you talk?”  Interesting question.  I thought about it.

“Pretty much.  I’ve been around critical, judgmental people as well as some champion encouragers.  I’ve decided I’ve had enough of the former and am spending the rest of my life being one of the latter.  Everybody’s got bad decisions and rough experiences in their backgrounds.

“They don’t need yet another critic pointing out their faults.  In my experience, they do need people around them who’ll cheer them on, lifting and encouraging them when they feel like giving up.  Even if they need some coaching, it doesn’t have to be done like a Marine DI dressing them down, or a stern teacher addressing a fourth-grade class.  Sometimes people forget how patient others were with them when they were learning.”

The man had gone somewhere in his thoughts.  When I stopped speaking, his eyes remained wherever he’d been for a few seconds; then they refocused on me.  “Well, keep doing what you do.”  Glancing up at the clock on Jimmie’s wall, he suddenly rose and grabbed his coat.  “Thank you for letting me share your table, and for the food.  I won’t forget this.”

I allowed that it was my privilege, that I hadn’t done much.

His response startled me.  “You’ve done more than you know.  I must go now.”

I said, “But I don’t even know your name.”

His eyes took on a strange, shimmering intensity, seeming to pierce into my very soul as he said, “But I know yours.”  And with that he was gone out the door.

I sat there, stunned at the transformation.  Trixie came by to pick up his plate, so I asked, “Do you know him?”  Her face revealed her own questions.  “I’ve never seen him before.”  We both quickly walked to the window looking out on the parking area.  Beyond the two or three vehicles parked there, we didn’t see our strange guest.

Trixie’s a believer, and I saw the same dawning awareness in her eyes as she surely saw in mine.  She hesitated, then said, “We just shared something–someone–special, didn’t we?”  I said, yes, I believe we did.

See the source imageThe mood didn’t last long, though.  I saw her jaw tense as she said, “I gotta go kill me a kid or I won’t have a restaurant left.  And I may throw his parents in for good measure.”

I grinned as I slowly returned to my booth.  I had some fresh ideas to get down on paper, and this morning’s strange encounter whirled them around in my mind, much as the wind’s cold fingers were strewing double-handfuls of leaves around the parking lot outside.

God truly does work in mysterious ways.

© D. Dean Boone, November 2017







Categories: Encouragement, Humor - Lighten Up, Tell-A-Story-Make-A-Point, Wisdom | Tags: , , | 1 Comment

Q(uiet) T(ime) M(using)s for 11/16/17: EVER STOPPED TO THINK . . . ?


Image result for coffee and politics

By now, you’ve figured out I’m addressing men and women here who all think way more highly of themselves than they should.  They are mortals, flesh-and-blood humans just like you and I, who by whatever means have managed to get themselves elected to public service – a term they all seem to have instantly jettisoned.

“Well, I wish you’d stick to good, wholesome, encouraging stuff that has solid spiritual applications.”

I am.

We could all learn a lot by re-reading Proverbs.  I just finished absorbing a little more of chapter 16, and it’s hard to pick one thing out from among all the others.  I won’t bore you; grab your Word and read it yourself.

Then you tell me if there’s not plenty in that single chapter to apply to all the political powermongers of every party, trying right now at the cost of our very nation’s health, to destroy one another’s careers and reputations just to get their own way, or cover up at all costs the sordid trail of their habitual corruption.

Image result for Animated Ventriloquist GifsIt is unfortunate they love having a following of young Americans with little or no sense of – nor appreciation for – history, whose opinions the wizened Caiaphas types of D.C. can easily manipulate.  They know those vapid youth will flood the airwaves and ‘Net with their handlers’ talking-point programming.

In this morning’s mail, I read this:  “When old people speak it is not because of the sweetness of words in our mouths; it is because we see something which you do not see. ”  Solomon had been around.  When God asked him what he most sought, the king asked for wisdom.

He got it.

It seems to me our puff-headed, blowhardy senators and representatives – and their staffers of this or that who think they’re hidden – would be better served to disregard their verb-parsing law degrees, and decide to use the Book of Proverbs as their guide to conducting the daily business of our nation.

Yes, I know.  I’m inducing in you the desire to go and reacquaint yourself with Proverbs.

Make your motions and cast your votes, but GOD has the final say.

It means more if you read it for yourself.  Begin with today’s date, the 16th.  Then sit back, think about what you just read in chapter 16, and make some notes.  List how many things it mentions could be applied to what’s going on in our nation’s Congress, and in states where crucial elections are up for grabs.

Ask yourself how different would be everyone’s attitudes, speech, and activities were we following the counsel found in this amazing Book of Wisdom.  And that’s just one book.  The Bible’s full of solid advice on how to treat and serve one another.

As verse 33 says it, “Make your motions and cast your votes, but GOD has the final say.”  If we believed that, most of what is taking up every news cycle imaginable wouldn’t be happening.

Think about it.

© D. Dean Boone, November 2017

Categories: Common Sense, Wisdom | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

300-Word Stroll for 11/13/17: 3 WAYS YESTERDAYERS AIN’T RATIN’

You can moon over how amazing you were until you’re wasting what God wants to do through you today.

Image result for coffee and stardom

You know the type.  Always reminding you of how studly or stunning they were, and how much better they could do whatever you’re doing.  Gets tiresome, doesn’t it?

“I’m glad you had those experiences, and once did all those wonderful things.  What are you doing today?”

Image result for coffee and past glory

Your instincts are correct.  There’s a reason God doesn’t have them doing it.  They’re insecure, needing to be seen and heard.  They may be flamboyant in dress, speech and deportment, so that on the surface they seem to have it all together.  They intimidate you into feeling small and dull in comparison.  Don’t let them get by with that.  No one can make you feel insignificant without your permission.

Quit listening, and stop giving it.

  2. THOSE LIVING IN YESTERDAY DRAG YOU DOWN & HOLD YOU BACK.  They don’t have that right.
  3. GOD’S LAID HIS ‘TODAY’ BEFORE YOU FOR A REASON.  Be looking here and ahead.

The Bible’s full of examples of people God chose to use that everyone else either ignored or ridiculed.

Image result for unlikely heroes Sure.  It rankles to watch The Loud and The Lovely keep being feted with praise and preference, when many others have more spiritual maturity, depth and wonderful talent to offer.  All they need is someone to encourage and develop them.

Popularity based on favors or family is fickle; eventually, it will collapse like pond ice during Spring thaw.

Be passionately patient and faithful in following God’s lead through your Today.  You’ve no idea what He has in store.

Humble yourselves under the mighty power of God, and in his good time he will honor you.  Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about what happens to you. ~ 1 Peter 5:6-7

© D. Dean Boone, November 2017


Categories: Common Sense, Encouragement, Wisdom | Tags: , , , , , , | Leave a comment